


feels like we only go backwards

by elektra



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Break Up, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra/pseuds/elektra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Please leave.” Junar’s voice is tight and small, not unlike the constricting swallow of Dorian’s throat as he forces back tears. The glinting at the corners of his eyes is only silver dust. “Please leave.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	feels like we only go backwards

**Author's Note:**

> my lavellan did not even remotely enjoy being inquisitor.

Dorian had once found Lavellan draped heavily across a terrace bannister in the winter palace -- his thick wool locks tossed over one shoulder, his head braced between his arms on the stone that chilled rapidly in the moonlight, and his stance utterly defeated. Just when Dorian thought he'd fallen asleep in this pose, standing, Junar had spoken in a drawled mumble;

"I'm a person, too."

"What makes you so inclined to mention the obvious?" Dorian said only after realizing his quirked eyebrow had gone unseen and prompted no further conversation.

“I'm not a machine or a blunt weapon you can throw around until it works for you. I have feelings. I get tired. I have a name besides Inquisitor Lavellan." Junar rolled his forehead into the crook of one elbow. "But now that I have the power and the responsibility to decide who does or doesn't rule empires, I’ll be forgotten and everyone will think that I’ve wholly become that power." _But I'm weak._ The unspoken last words.

He only remembers that hushed moment so much later, knows it for what it really was, when the pulsing hole in Lavellan’s palm is replaced with cursed, cursed nothingness. Once Dorian would have enjoyed silence with the man he loved, an alcove in a library with the singing steel of practice outside the breezy window, nipping mountain air that couldn’t touch him when Junar covered his bared shoulders with his own warmth. Now, when Junar’s skin is grey and dry, lips cracked and pressed firmly together in some show of defiance against everyone who’s come to visit, Dorian wishes more for loud chatter, bards, and praises of the Inquisitor’s triumph —

… And that was it, wasn’t it? Even Dorian still sees Junar as bigger than life, infallible, and otherworldly. All that was ever needed was the painful, slow peeling away of jests and grandiose banter, and the introduction of sweeter things. Sullenly, Dorian wonders if there had ever been anything private and special between the two of them. As he sits by Lavellan’s side, he wonders how many other people had already come to do so before him. He wonders if there’s any worth to taking the only hand on the only side left.

“Not your dominant hand,” Dorian mutters, watching the crease between Junar’s brows deepen. Not the right thing to say. Of course. It never was.

It feels more awkward and stilted than their youthful courting ever had. Should they have kissed passionately, embraced, should he have curled up beside his beloved and spun him golden tales of sunshine, flower patches, spiced air wafting in from docks?

Junar pulls his hand away. searches feebly under his drawn collar, gracefully taking out the sending crystal and up over his head, filling Dorian’s palm with it.

“I don’t think you were — thinking clearly when you gave this to me. I think you should go back to Tevinter and give it to someone who will use it better than I would.”

“Amatus —“

“I don’t want to get in your way. You’ll be doing important things.”

“You are important.” Dorian tries to take his hand. Junar’s head is leaned back against the wall, turned away. He notices that those thick braids have been removed in some places, revealing his natural rings of tight curls. It’s a beautiful style. Perhaps if he were staying, for good, he could see it grow out into a cloud of hair.

“I’m no one.”

“ _Junar._ ”

“I’m going to go back to Skyhold. I’m going to sit in my castle by myself, and watch all those people I thought I was helping and giving hope to slowly leave for better cities. I’m going to be alone. I’m going to brood. I’m going to do nothing anymore. You don’t need someone like that hanging on your back. I’m going to be a burden, because you think you’ll always have to care for me, and one day you will realize that you’re forcing conversation with me, and so you’ll stop. I would rather our conversations stop here, when I know it will, than when I still expect to hear your voice.”

For a while, there’s nothing that can be said.

“Please leave.” Junar’s voice is tight and small, not unlike the constricting swallow of Dorian’s throat as he forces back tears. The glinting at the corners of his eyes is only silver dust. “Please leave.”

Dorian leaves.


End file.
